The Velvet Land
Where the wind’s howl is smothered by snow, and the frozen mossy trees are ornamented with icicles, here the stage of timeless moments pares back its violet velvet curtain like dark parting for stars (that glow and pulse from a million years away); here the diva waltzes, an opaque moon with brilliant sun, in an ivory lace evening dress sweeping the floor. Dear poets, the leading lady in the Land of Winter has delicate frozen fingers draped in long elegant cream gloves and a wool cape like the branches of grief’s trees. In this dance the sun and moon are equal distance apart, hovering near planets where tears fall to acrid ground and become salty marble statues. This statue is a Michelangelo, these scraps of poem fall from his hands, kind of like a request for fish from his illiterate servant. “We make fish,” say the oceans, “We make bread,” says the land, but the butter is unsalted and moon-spun, ...
